Summer 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2001 |

They Fall

They fall not like the leaves in their autumns, nor like the crackers after they burst open into purple wounds in the sky of the vernal marriage processions but like those pages torn from a calendar on the wall featuring sequestered gods. In it they resemble those gods. It is not that their falls are not inevitable but they precipitate it like the meteors in the hearts without a home, frantic in search of an altar on mid-air earth. And the way they fall— crashing against the treetops of our afforested despairs, ripping apart our cores that enshrine private gods and thudding onto the earth like a mountain-like blood-soaked cuckoos— they could only resemble us we who often stand on the equinox of an otherwise shortish glee and a longish agony.

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